


My Immortal

by morbid_solemn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10.22 Coda/Flashback, 10.23 coda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:34:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morbid_solemn/pseuds/morbid_solemn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean reflects upon what the Mark of Cain has caused him to do, especially in the presence of a certain angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Evanscene's "My Immortal". It just reminded me so much of Dean and Cas, and it was supposed to be a little more similar and there were supposed to be more parallels, but I just started and I couldn't stop! Please enjoy!

Dean wiped a hand over his face. He grabbed the bottle by the side of his bed and raised it to lips. It was only as he placed the battle down on the nightstand that he noticed the raised red skin that lay on his forearm. A part of him wanted to grab the bottle again and throw it at the wall in one smooth movement, to hold the thin, sleek part of the lamp nearby and allow it to chase after the bottle, but the other part of his body wanted to remain seated and to not move. It wanted quiet and peace. It wanted to attempt to figure out the mess of entangled emotions and it wanted to sort through the events that had occurred before this moment. 

Dean, however, wasn’t on terms with his mind, and when his mind reminded him of his emotions, well, that reminded Dean that he wasn’t on terms with those either. 

He had been coping. He had been to the bunker and he had almost killed Castiel. After he had slammed the blade down, he had thought, even if it had only been for a moment, that he had killed the angel. The fear rippled through him, like it had when Jimmy Novak had resurfaced through the façade of Castiel. The dread was similar to the moment when his face was swollen, and he glimpsed Lucifer who was using his brother to explode the angel. The horror swam through him like it had when he ran after Castiel, chasing him only to watch him dissolve into a reservoir, like it had when his hands gripped the then-ex-angel’s face and screamed until his voice cracked. 

It had been the same fear each of those times, similar to the fear of the unknown, but not exactly the same. Dean was scared and it was of something he didn’t know, but it was tied to an emotion that Dean had never dealt well with. He was afraid of a life without Castiel; he didn’t know if he could do it at all, if it was even possible. The first time it rammed through him, he had been so lost, so confused. Where was he to go without Castiel? What was he to do? Of course he would continue to hunt, but it wouldn’t be the same. Not without all the confused glances and squinted stares that informed Dean that his friend hadn’t understood the words that had trailed out of his mouth. It wouldn’t be the same without having his friend there to make him laugh but to also have his back. 

The green-eyed Winchester sighed and pushed himself off of the bed to attempt to brush the thoughts off. He walks into the bathroom, pushing the door only enough to get through it. He splashes water on his face and looks up at the mirror and trips backwards slightly. In the mirror is the reflection of a bloody and battered Angel of the Lord. The dying shell of Castiel is shown in the reflective glass, covered in wounds and lacerations inflicted by Dean himself. 

“Cas…” The name rolls off of Dean’s tongue with a redundancy that seems to belong, but something is different. The syllable is pronounced softly but held out with the affliction of guilt. Dean’s eyes are wide and for a moment the Mark of Cain is abandoned and forgotten, the culpability of hurting Castiel strong enough to fend off the toxicity of the curse. His hand reaches outward tentatively, eager for the reassuring touch of his friend. But the image is gone and all that remains is Dean.

Dean leaves the bathroom in a flash of anger, the door slamming against the wall as it opens to let him out. 

He expels his anger on various objects in the motel room; throwing the television from its position atop the dresser, finally throwing the lamp at the wall opposite to him. He wishes he could take it all back, to stop himself from throwing the first punch against Castiel. Dean wanted desperately to simply hold onto to Castiel rather than bruise the angel. He wanted to beg Castiel to leave, to hide, to do something while Dean held himself off. He wished that he had enough self-control to save Castiel, not to be weak and have given in to the Mark. 

But it’s not the fact that Dean has hurt Castiel that sends him over the edge. God knows that that angel had thrown him around at least a few times. It was the look that he had donned after Dean threw punch after punch, after he pulled and twisted the angel. Castiel had looked at him and felt that Dean was truly going to end his existence. During the fight, it was easy to see that Castiel fought defensively to provide Dean with enough time to fight the Mark and to realize what he was doing. But it was when Dean threw Castiel to the ground and held the angel blade above his shoulder, when the small, fragile words escaped the angel’s mouth: “Dean. Please”, that Dean knew it. He knew that the profound bond between the two of them had been severed. Castiel's trust in Dean had been replaced by doubt and fear, and Castiel truly believed that in the moment, that Dean was going to kill him. 

Dean looked up from his shaking hands, hands that had held the end of his friend. He grabbed the motel stationary and wrote: “She’s all yours.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the Impala, which he placed on top of the notepad. It was only along the way to the old abandoned restaurant that Dean finally understood that Castiel was never really his friend. He was his angel.


End file.
